Forty Leap (12 page)

Wyatt Cristian

Jeremy Cristian

Martha Cristian

Olivia Cristian

Devin Cristian

Jack Cristian

Jennie

I handed it back to him and he read the
list.

“Jennie?” he asked. “There must be several
thousand Jennifers…”

“With an
ie
,” I told him. “It’s not
common.”

“But it may not be that way in her
records.”

“Then check last night’s manifest.”

“Excuse me?”

“She was on that bus. Your guards wouldn’t
let me get to her.”

He looked down at the list again. He did not
attempt to address my anger at having been kept separate from her.
He promised to find out all he could and pass the information on to
me. As we finished eating, he informed me that I would begin work
the next day.

I was roused at five the next morning. I had
gone to bed early the night before. The apartments were small but
adequate. Privacy was apparently not a priority because there were
no locks on the doors. There was closet space for clothing and a
bookshelf for books, although mine was empty. There was a private
bathroom, but no kitchen. I had been given soap, towels, toothpaste
and toothbrush, and an electric razor. The bed was comfortable if a
little too firm for my taste. And it was clean and dry and it eased
some of the burden I had been feeling.

Breakfast was short and light, consisting of
cereal and eggs. There was milk or juice and I drank juice. There
was no coffee. I became an instant curiosity to the others in my
unit. People looked at me over one another’s shoulders and I heard
some whispering, but it didn’t faze me. After breakfast we were
loaded onto a bus similar to the one that had taken Jennie away. I
sat alone, looking out at the dark city streets.

I had never done any sort of manual labor in
my life. I was a white collar kid with a white collar future that
turned into a white collar present. Just so we’re clear, putting on
a suit and tie every day and going to an office doesn’t mean you
don’t have a menial job. Putting on a denim shirt and ratty blue
jeans and sticking your hands in the mud every day doesn’t mean you
do. I learned the first shortly after college. I learned the second
when I became a laborer for the United Arab Nation.

Most of the laborers working on the
reconstruction of New York were United States civilians waiting for
extradition, though there were a few Arab men. The foremen and
administrators were all Arabs and they mostly talked down to us and
insulted us, but there wasn’t any of what you might expect to go on
in a prisoner work force. Even the insults were meaningless since I
couldn’t understand the Arabic and their English was atrocious.

Since it didn’t seem worthwhile to put me
through any extensive training, I was given simple tasks such as
digging and clearing debris by hand. We were excavating what had
once been the Wall Street financial district. Here, the buildings
had been severely damaged and reconstruction had only barely begun.
Most of my companions seemed to resent the hard work, but I found
it to be therapeutic. It required little concentration, though
safety demanded alertness. I was able to focus my thoughts on other
things, largely daydreams in which I would be reunited with my
family or what I might wish to say to Jennie if I had the
opportunity to contact her.

At the end of that first day, I was
exhausted, but impressed with the organization and treatment of
refugees. Our work day had begun at 6:30 am and ended at 5:00 pm.
This may seem like a long day, but we were given breaks
sporadically throughout the course of the day to eat and use the
toilet. Lunch was at eleven and lasted an hour and fifteen minutes.
We ate sandwiches in a cafeteria and were able to select from a
large array of books and magazines that had survived the invasion.
There was also television, but, again, everyone spoke Arabic so I
couldn’t understand it. Instead, I turned my attentions to six year
old periodicals that helped catch me up on what had happened
leading up the war.

We were given dinner back at the apartment
complex and then allowed ninety minutes of socializing before being
dismissed to our rooms. I had no interest in socializing. Even if I
had, I wasn’t given the opportunity. I was escorted back to my
apartment immediately after dinner where I found Samud waiting for
me.

“Unfortunately,” he explained. “We won’t be
able to get you out of work for our research. I understand that you
are tired, but now is the only time we have. I expect Dr. Miktoffin
will not keep you for more than an hour.”

I looked down at myself. Though given the
opportunity to wash our hands and faces, none of us had showered. I
was sweaty and filthy and tired and in no mood to participate in
any research. Besides which, I was not interested in cooperating
just yet.

“Did you get information on any of the people
on my list yet?” I asked.

He looked sheepishly away. “I did not have
the opportunity to look into it today.”

I took a deep breath. “We’ll begin the
research when you have.”

When he turned back, his expression betrayed
anger at this manipulation. I wondered in fear for a moment what he
would do, but he did nothing. “Dr. Miktoffin will be
disappointed.”

When it was clear that I wouldn’t respond, he
stood and left without saying good night. I noticed absently that
my heart was beating a regular rate despite my momentary fear.
Perhaps I was just too tired for the adrenaline rush. Stripping off
my clothing, I showered and was in bed before the rest of my peers
had finished their socialization.

Samud came to see me again the next evening,
but this time he did not come empty handed. This time I could not
help but notice the reactions of the other prisoners as I was once
again escorted from the dining hall before socialization. I
wondered how often this would happen and how it would affect my
life. Once again, I had no interest in forming ties with anyone.
Emotional bonds made skipping through time very difficult. I didn’t
want to add any more names to the list I gave the next “Samud”
after the next leap.

He did not offer his hand to me. Apparently
he was still sore about my refusal to go with him the night before.
Instead, he handed me a folder of papers. I took them out eagerly,
looking through the documents of information on each of the members
of my family.

Wyatt and Jeremy had relocated to the
Midwest, Wisconsin to be more precise. Using government relief
offered to displaced citizens, they were able to buy a modest house
and move the two families in together. It was a surprise to me that
they would do so because, though Attenda had always been extremely
cordial and patient with Martie, Martie’s jealousy had not allowed
her to offer the same courtesy to her sister in law. Devin, now
thirteen years old, lived with them and went to school in town.
Livvie, at twenty one, had finished college early and moved to
California. She was in the process of launching a journalistic
career. Jack had enlisted and been killed in action during the
Battle of 95 (95 referring to the stretch of highway over which the
Americans and the Arabs were fighting as opposed to the year which
had been 2011). I felt a pang of grief as I read of Jack’s death,
but I doubt that it was for Jack himself. As I mentioned, I rarely
saw the boy and always envisioned him as a slacker. Of course, he
had proven me wrong, showing up to fight for his country in its
time of need. Still, there had been no connection between us. For
Jeremy, though, I could not imagine what the loss of a son must
have done to him. And Martie… The sheet of paper in my hands could
not tell me the emotional damage Martie had endured. As a woman
whose life had amounted to her children and nothing else, having
half of her reason for existing stripped away must have been a
devastating blow. I felt for her as I had never felt for her
before.

The last sheet was Jennie’s. She was listed
as Jennie Campbell, born March 26
^th
, 1994. That made her
twenty years old. The picture was from her internment, which had
occurred on July 4
^th
, 2009, just a few days after I had
disappeared.

“I noticed that the location of her arrest is
the same as the location of yours,” Samud said after giving me
several minutes to stare at the sheet. “I have also brought you
this.” Reaching into his suit pocket, he pulled out the small and
battered notebook I had been using for my journal.

I took it, not saying anything right away.
Finally, I put the sheets back into the folder and placed it onto
the bookshelf. The journal I kept with me. “I’d like to take a fast
shower before we go and visit your friend.”

Dr. Miktoffin was a squirrelly little man
with large round glasses and graying hair. He reminded me of Albert
Einstein. I’m also not sure that he was Arabic. His accent sounded
faintly Indian and I’m not sure of the origins of his name. I
suppose it was my own American ignorance that prevented me from
singling out his origin in the Middle East. Every time we met he
would greet me both politely and excitedly. He took numerous blood
tests and various types of scans. To me it didn’t seem as if his
equipment was top of the line, but I wasn’t concerned as long as
the needles were clean. He explained that he believed whole
heartedly in what I said of my experiences. He was certain that
mine was a rare physical condition that had sprung up in the human
population. With so few subjects, it was difficult to trace the
beginnings of the leaping syndrome, but he was determined to trace
the cause. Of course, tests immediately following my last leap
would have provided immeasurable information but that opportunity
had been wasted in ignorance. Instead, he developed what he called
a
base line
and hoped that it would allow him to predict my
next jump. That, at least, would be useful information.

On the nights that I did not go to see the
doctor, I was allowed to spend the socialization period with my
fellow workers. Actually, the term
allowed
is a bit of
stretch.
Required
is closer to the truth. All of the units
in the building were brought to a series of large ball rooms,
called common rooms, for snacks and socializing. It was like an
informal affair every night. There were folding tables and folding
chairs. The floor was made of wood and could have been an adequate
dance floor if there had been music. But there was none. No one was
allowed to go off on his or her own and without Samud coming to
rescue me, I was forced into the common rooms to sit and read or
watch incomprehensible television or brood. I spent long hours
looking at the picture of Jennie, easily seeing the fifteen year
old girl in the picture that had been taken when her manifest had
cleared. Of course, I asked Samud if I could contact her in some
way, but the answer was no. Apparently, the United States was
against communication with people still inside UAN occupied
territory. Since Jennie had already been extradited, there was no
way for us to get in contact.

Though I did not make friends or have ready
conversation with my coworkers, it is unfair to say that I did not
get to know them. Conversations were loud and rumors spread through
the crowd. There were a handful of outcasts among us that sought
even my company once in a while. I didn’t have anything really to
say to them, but they needed to talk to someone so I did the polite
thing and listened.

Jonah Jones was the worst of the lot. He was
this six foot six inch black man who weighed in at well over three
hundred pounds, with none of it suffering for the very square meals
we ate day in and day out. I don’t want to say that Jonah was a bad
guy or that he wasn’t nice in his own way, but he was desperate for
human companionship and would latch on to whomever could not find a
socialization partner. I never found a partner and was thankful
that I was not Jonah’s first choice. Unfortunately, I was not his
last choice either. When most of the others paired off or better,
if it was just me and maybe a couple of others going it alone,
there was Jonah, looking for an ear to bend. He had this
unnaturally high voice that completely contradicted his appearance.
Over the past several months before we had met, hauling bricks and
girders had turned Jonah into a physically imposing individual. He
was also the most gentle person that I had ever met. One day, he
found a flower at the work site. It was just a dandelion and it had
been uprooted by someone, but it shone a bright yellow. Jonah
brought the flower to me and laid it on the table that evening. He
spoke about that flower and how it reminded him of the fields where
he grew up. Though it smelled only of dirt and some worker’s shoes,
he
imagined
a smell that brought him back to his mother and
father. It was a touching story, truly, but it ran a little long
(forty minutes) and I was at the edge of my tolerance when it
concluded. The next day, the flower had turned black and Jonah had
sought me out to orchestrate part two of the story. Mercifully, I
was called away by Samud on that day.

Jonah waited for me.

I heard the story the following night.

Another of Jonah’s favorite talking partners
was Jesse Cataldo. I would put Jesse at about forty or forty five
years old. Her face and her hair were a contradiction on that
score. There were no wrinkles and when I looked past the dirt and
fatigue, I saw a stunning woman. Her hair, however, seemed always
tousled and it was white from root to stem. She often tied it back
just to keep it out of her face. To be honest, I don’t know what
Jonah saw in her. She was rude to him constantly, but I got the
impression that it had nothing to do with her demeanor. There was a
disconnect inside of her that forced outbursts. They were never
vulgar or even hurtful, but they were usually abrupt. She would say
to him, “No! I can’t talk today.” And that would be that. Then she
would go off to a chair by herself and mutter.